


The Empty House

by springhorton



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, First Time, Gay, Love, M/M, Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-12
Updated: 2012-02-12
Packaged: 2017-10-31 01:09:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/338244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/springhorton/pseuds/springhorton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has been "dead" for eighteen months now and John still hasn't recovered. He realised too late that Sherlock was more than a friend to him. But we all know that Sherlock isn't really dead. What will happen when he and John are reunited?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Empty House

I stared at the floor, legs crossed, my foot bouncing up and down.

"John?" she said again. It was the voice of my therapist. She wanted to know why I'd come. "John, you were doing so well. Why are you here today?"

I cleared my throat and ran a hand across my lips. Then I took a deep breath and quietly said, "I saw him again."

She tilted her head with a frown. "It's been months since you've seen him."

"I know," I said impatiently.

"So what's changed?"

I shook my head. "I don't know. Nothing. I'm fine, really." I waited, but she only gave me a look of disbelief. "So why am I seeing Sherlock again?'

I left her office an hour later and took the tube home. The days of being able to afford London taxis had gone out with Sherlock. I made a modest living covering for doctors at clinics and a few other things on the side. I'd decided to keep the flat at 221B though so there were few luxuries in my life. So, the tube it was.

I sat down as the doors closed behind me. I stared out the window, at the dark wall beyond, trying not to notice anyone, trying not to see their faces. When the tube stopped at the Baker Street station, I was the first one off. I walked away from the gap and the people and took a deep breath. Then I squared my shoulders, bowed my head and walked away. I made it to the street and back to the flat without an incident. When I walked through the front door I turned and quickly shut it behind me. I leaned my forehead against it and let out a breath.

I went up the stairs to the flat and took off my coat. I hung it up and then turned around with a bit of a start. "Greg," I said.

"Hello John. Mrs. Hudson said you'd be back soon so I decided I'd wait."

After Sherlock died in disgrace, Lestrade's career had taken a blow as well. He'd been bumped down and his cases watched closely. A couple of months after the funeral, he'd come to me one evening after work. He'd thought that, maybe, between the two of us we had learned enough from Sherlock to solve a particularly tricky case. It had worked. Lestrade was working his way back up and I had found a way to hold on to a piece of the greatest man I'd ever known.

"New case?" I asked and sat down at the table across from him.

He nodded. "Murder of some rich kid. Apparently his dad is some kind of ambassador."

"So, no pressure then."

He chuckled and opened the file. "His name was Ronald Adair, a bit of a partier. Bit of a gambler too. We can't find that he had any enemies though. Everyone seemed to love him."

"So what happened?"

"No idea. His mother found him, lying dead on the floor in his room. The door was locked from the inside and there were no signs anyone came through the window. Hell, we don't even know what killed him yet."

"But it wasn't natural causes?"

"None that make any sense. His family and his GP insist he was perfectly healthy."

"Poison maybe?"

"We're looking in to that."

"Which could mean he was poisoned somewhere else," I pointed out.

"Yes. It's gonna mean a lot of leg work," he said. I nodded, my pulse quickening, but then he added, "Unfortunately I'll have to do most of it myself. I know you want to help, but I'm afraid you might have to stick to the reports."

My face fell, but I knew he was right. Lestrade was being watched closely and I no longer had any clout with Scotland Yard. That didn't stop me from being disappointed though. I nodded and slid the file toward me.

"You keep that," Lestrade said as he stood to go. "It's a copy."

"I'll look it over," I promised. "Keep me in the loop."

"I'll do that." He stopped and hesitated a moment before saying, "How are you, John?"

"I'm fine," I answered, already deeply engrossed in the paperwork.

He waited like he wanted to say more, but then turned and left.

In the few days after I'd gone to see my therapist, my imagination seemed to calm down. For three days, I didn't catch a single glimpse of Sherlock's face. I kept involved in Lestrade's case which was interesting if, mostly, unproductive. On the fourth day, I went to the market late in the evening, feeling more like myself. I walked back up to the flat, put my shopping away and decided to go to bed early. Lestrade had dropped off some updates and I wanted to tackle them bright and early the next day.  
I opened the door to the downstairs bedroom and stepped in. I started to close the door, but a strange noise caught my attention. It sounded like breathing. Light from outside cast a dim glow over the bed and I could make out a human shape.

My body tensed and I crept over to the bed side lamp. I held my breath, wishing I had my gun. I carefully switched on the lamp. What I saw sent me reeling backwards. 

"No," I gulped, shaking my head. "No, you're not real. You're dead."

Slowly, Sherlock Holmes sat up. "John," he said in a voice meant to soothe me. It didn't work.

"No!" I yelled. I saw you fall! I saw your body on the sidewalk!" Everything else came out in a blur of screams and sobs. I felt my knees buckle and saw Sherlock rush over to catch me.

"John, you saw what you had to see."

I finally caught my breath and sat up. "What?"

He stood up and offered me a hand. "I needed you to believe I was dead."

I batted his hand away and stood up on my own. My face was hot and my heart pounding. "It's been eighteen months," I said. It had started as a growl, but I was screaming again by the time I finished the sentence.

"John," he said apologetically again. "Let me explain." His face was pale and his demeanor so defeated that he almost won me over. Before he could say anything else though, my fist connected with his cheek, sending him reeling onto the bed.

"You let me think you were dead?" I screamed and flew at him like a wild man. I knocked him back to the bed and started hitting him. "I almost lost my mind," I growled. I got a few more punches in before I realised that he wasn't putting up a defense. I pushed back and stared at him. His eyes were full of tears and, more than that, they were haunted. My breath caught in my throat and I sank back to the floor.

Sherlock slid off the bed and sat down across from me. "John, I'm so sorry."

I shook my head, rocking back and forth. He started to say something else, but I cut in, "No, I don't want to hear it right now."

"But-"

I looked up at him and shook my head again. Suddenly my arms were around him and I said, "It doesn't matter. I only care that you're alive."

We held on to each other and cried for what seemed like forever until we were exhausted and couldn't breathe. I pushed Sherlock away, looking him over. This time when he stood and offered his hand I took it. We sat down on the bed and Sherlock stared off into the distance.

"I know it was hard on you," he said. "But the last eighteen months haven't been easy for me either, John."

I glanced over at him, but he didn't look at me. I knew it was true though. He was even thinner than usual, his normally sharp eyes dull and I could tell he'd taken up smoking again. I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing came out. After all this time thinking about what I had wished I'd said to him, at that moment I couldn't think of anything.

After a moment he squinted and looked around. Then his solemn look was broken by that familiar sideways grin. "I see you've moved into my bedroom," he stated.

I felt the heat of embarrassment rush to my face. "Well I," I stammered.

"What?" he prompted. I just looked away so Sherlock said, "I also noticed that everything I owned is packed up in the living room. Thank you for keeping it all."

I looked back at him and blurted out, "I've been helping Lestrade with some of his cases too."

Sherlock smiled again. "I know."

"Of course you do." The two of us laughed and then I quietly said, "I used to see you. Your face I mean. I thought I saw you everywhere after you…when I thought you had died."

He was quiet again and I thought I could see a bit of regret on his face. "That's because I was following you."

My eyes widened. "What?"

"I thought I had taken enough precautions, but I underestimated you again, John. You'd learned my techniques well enough, were too observant. When I realised you were spotting me and…how it made you feel, I stopped following you. I had the homeless network keep an eye on you instead."

I shook my head in disbelief. I should have known. I suddenly felt guilty that I'd ever believed he was gone. "But I saw you," I heard myself saying. "I saw you lying there in a pool of blood. How?"

"Let's not…get into that now."  
"Ok, how about why? Why did you do it, Sherlock? And why didn't you tell me?" I added softly.

"I had to, John. I had to make the world believe I was dead. It was the only way to keep you safe."

"Keep me safe?"

"Yes, you, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. Moriarty had hit men in place with orders to kill you if I didn't jump."

"Oh my god," I said and swept a hand across my brow. "But you could have-"

"No. You had to believe it, John. I knew I couldn't come back until I could clear my name and bring down Moriarty's organisation."

"And you've done that have you?"

"I believe so, yes," he said with a grin. "Only one loose end to tie up."

"And what's that?" I asked.

"You'll see. Oddly enough it has to do with your case."

"Ronald Adair?"

"Exactly."

"So he was murdered?"

"Oh yes. Come on, John, we have a lot of work to do." He hopped up, more like his old self, but I just sat and shook my head.

"No Sherlock, not tonight."

"Why not? What's wrong?" he asked impatiently. I looked at him in disbelief and I saw his features soften. "Alright," he said quietly and sat back down. "Tomorrow then. We'll get some rest, have some breakfast, give Mrs. Hudson a good fright and then get to work."

I chuckled and stood up to leave. "Sounds like a plan."

"Where are you going? This is your bedroom now."

"No," I answered, a lump in my throat. "This was always your bedroom. That's why I've been staying in it." I turned to leave, but then stopped and turned back. "You know I…love you Sherlock. I kicked myself in the ass everyday because I'd never be able to tell you, because I'd missed my chance."

He stared at me, looking a bit shell shocked. I smiled weakly and said, "Goodnight. I'll be on the sofa if you need…anything. See you in the morning."

He nodded and I closed the door behind me.

I spent most of the night tossing and turning. I would wake up from some horrible nightmare and then get up and peak through Sherlock's door to see if he was really there. Sherlock seemed to sleep like a log and when morning came he looked refreshed and perky. I had to drag myself to the dining room table for coffee.

"You look disgustingly well," I commented.

He grinned, looking over the paper. A part of my brain could almost pretend like he'd never been gone at all. Of course, he didn't mention anything about what I'd said the night before. About the time I started to open my mouth about the case, Mrs. Hudson knocked on the door and let out the loudest wail I've ever heard.

After picking her and her shopping up off the floor, lots of hugging, crying and scolding, we got down to the business of breakfast and Sherlock's return.

"Ok," I said. "Just how do you plan to clear your name and what does it have to do with my case?"

He gave me a sly look and I knew I wasn't going to get all of the details. He tossed me the paper and said, "Morning edition, tomorrow's paper."

"You finally grant that interview?" I teased.

"No, it's better. I sent them a recording."

"A recording?"

"Button camera, John. Remember the camera planted in the flat?"

I wracked my brain, thinking back to things I'd tried so hard to forget. It was foggy after eighteen months, but I thought I knew what he was talking about.

"Lestrade came to see if you'd come in with him?"

"Yes! I attached the camera I found that night to my coat and recorded everything that happened on the roof with Moriarty."

I dropped my fork and gaped at him. "You could have cleared your name then!"  
"Yes, but it would have got you killed."

Mrs. Hudson clucked as she brought in another plate of toast.

"I had to stay away," he assured us.

I chuckled at the toast. "There are only three of us," I pointed out.

"Well you need fed up. Look at him, all waif like. It's not healthy."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," he said warmly and she beamed at him before sitting down to join us.

"So what in the world does this have to do with Ronald Adair?" I asked.

I could tell right away that this was the part I wasn't going to get straight answers on. I stared at him for a moment, but he said nothing. Finally, I got up and got the files Lestrade had left me.

"And what do Lestrade's files say?" he asked.

"Let's see. Ronald Adair was the son of an Ambassador. Found dead in his bedroom 30th of March. His mother found him at 11.20 pm. There police still aren't sure how he died."

Sherlock steepled his fingers in thought. "Did the mother mention any strange smells in his room?"

"Strange smells?" I looked through the pages and then said, "Uh no. Why? What are you thinking?"

He waved it away. "Go on."

"Adair was a gambler, liked to play cards. The night he died he played with three men, Murray, Hardy and a bloke called Moran."

"Sebastian Moran," Sherlock said slowly, drawing out each syllable.

"You've heard of him?"

"Yes and he's heard of me."

I frowned for a moment and then said, "So this Sebastian Moran is the connection between my case and your…case?"

"Exactly. Come on, John."

He stood up and grabbed his coat, heading for the door.

"Shouldn't you be keeping a low profile?"

"I will, though it hardly matters. Moran already knows I'm here."

"He does? How?"

"I texted him and told him so."

"What?" I choked. "Why would you do that?"

"To flush him out. Now we'll give him what he wants, an opening."

"For what?"

"To break into the flat and lay his trap."

I shook my head, trying to wrap my mind around the ridiculousness of it all. Eighteen months had smoothed the edges of my memories of what it was like being around Sherlock Holmes.

"Come on, John," he repeated. "I need to see a man about a plan."

I stood up and grabbed my jacket as well. "A plan?"

"Yes," he said lowly. "I have a bit of a bone to pick with my brother."

"You're going to see Mycroft?" I said in disbelief as I stepped out the front door. 

Sherlock hailed a cab and quipped, "Do you know another brother of mine?"

"But it's practically his fault this happened."

"No…well, not entirely. A lot of things were not as they seemed at the time."

I gaped at him and then sat down in the taxi. He shut the door behind him after giving the driver the address of the Diogenes club.

"You know, I don't even know how he is," I confessed. "I haven't seen him since your funeral."

Sherlock was quiet, deep in thought. I don't know if he'd even heard me. The silence disturbed me though. After so long without his voice, I wanted him to talk to me.

"What will you say to him?" I asked.  
He acknowledged me with a sideways grin, but kept mum the rest of the ride. He paid the cab fair when we stepped out at the club and paused to turn up his collar. I rolled my eyes and followed him through the front door. The club was populated by the usual crowd of little old men and various MPs. 

"I'm here to see Mycroft Holmes," Sherlock stated.

"Uh, Sherlock," I whispered as disapproving looks went around the room.

"Oh that's right," he said. "Complete silence. Well, don't worry about it then. I'll show myself in," he added with a chuckle.

I turned and started to make apologies for him, but then thought better of it and followed Sherlock down the hall. When he got to the front door of the private meeting room, I saw Sherlock hesitate in a way I'd never seen him do before.

"Are you ok?" I asked.

"Yes, I'm fine," he answered quickly and pushed open the door.

Mycroft looked thinner and older too and rather angry that we'd burst in without permission. His initial look of annoyance was halted in its tracks though and replaced with one of terror and confusion. He stumbled backwards and put a hand on the back of a chair to support himself.

"It's good to see you too Mycroft," Sherlock quipped.

"Sherlock," Mycroft whispered.

"And somehow I would have figured he'd known you were alive," I said.

"You mean, you didn't?" Sherlock said to him as he sat down in the chair opposite.

"Of course I didn't," Mycroft said, recovering his voice in a bit of a bark.

Sherlock gave him a look of disbelief and then blinked and lifted his chin on realisation. "You didn't."

"No."

It was Sherlock's turn to look confused, but it quickly passed. "Well, it looks like your plan didn't exactly…go as planned, did it brother?"

Mycroft looked indignant for a moment, but then slumped into the chair. "No it didn't, did it? But apparently it was only because I overestimated you."

Sherlock puffed up in defense and I could tell that Mycroft instantly regretted what he'd said. I chose that moment to throw in, "What plan?"

The two of them felt each other out for another moment and then Sherlock said, "You don't really believe that my brother would be stupid enough to sell me out to the most dangerous man in the world without a plan do you?"

His eyes never left Mycroft as he said this, but now he turned to me with an expectant look. I shook my head, not sure what to think. I turned to Mycroft and he was staring at me too, a small smile forming on his face.

"This is about that bloody code isn't it?" I asked him.

"There was no code," Mycroft said lowly. "There was never any code."

"And you?" I turned to Sherlock. "You knew all along?"

"Yes."

"Then why did you play along?" I asked.

"Because Moriarty needed to believe. He couldn't know that I knew the truth."

"So much for telling Lestrade that it was a game you weren't willing to play."

The two of them grinned again and I fought back the urge to claw their eyes out.

"Yes, John," Mycroft said, his voice patronising once again. "It was a game, but it wasn't Moriarty's. It was ours."

I shot him a look and said, "So what went wrong?" It had the desired effect. The smug look melted off of his face and he looked away.

"We hadn't factored in Moriarty's suicide," Sherlock answered. "Without him, there was no way to keep you safe, no way to call of his hit men. We had no idea who there were or where they were at the time."

I shook my head and rubbed my temples. "There are a few too many 'we's' floating around for my comfort zone." The two of them chuckled and I said, "Stop it. Just stop it! So tell me, Sherlock, did anyone know what really happened, that you were alive?"

"Molly Hooper."

"Molly Hooper?" Mycroft and I repeated in unison.

"Yes," Sherlock answered calmly. "I needed someone who could fake an autopsy, who could declare me dead even when I wasn't."

"Great," I mumbled. "Molly Hooper. You don't even like Molly Hooper."

He frowned at me, not registering my jealousy. "There's nothing particularly wrong with her, John. Well, she does talk too much and has a tendency to date criminals, but-"

I held up my hand and said, "That's fine. I understand, she came in handy when you needed her."

"Yes, John. She had the capabilities I needed and I knew she'd be willing to help me."

"How touching. Kept in touch a lot did you?"

By now Mycroft was giving me an odd look as well. Sherlock shook his head and replied, "No. Not since I left London. Are you alright, John?"

"Oh yes. I'm fine," I hissed back.

"Well, I do believe he's jealous," Mycroft said with relish.

"Oh shut up!" I said and stormed out of the room. I stopped a few feet outside and balled up my fists. I took deep breaths, trying to calm myself, feeling rather silly.

"We'll discuss this further some other time," I heard Sherlock say.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said. "I'm truly sorry that it came to this."

"Yes."

With that I heard him stand and walk out the door to join me. He hesitated behind me and I could almost hear him thinking. 

"John, I-"

"Never mind. It's fine," I cut in and walked on.

Once outside, we hailed a cab back to Baker Street. We had a bite to eat at Speedy's and then went in to see Mrs. Hudson.

"What's this all about?" she asked before Sherlock could get very far.

"Yes," I agreed. "What the hell is going on?"

He only smiled at us and started issuing instructions. He handed Mrs. Hudson a disk and said, "Upstairs is a projector. When the sun starts to set, I want you to go upstairs, put the disk in and turn it on. Call Inspector Lestrade and tell him you need him to come right away. Then I want you to go downstairs for dinner and don't leave your flat until this is cleared up. Alright?"

"But Sherlock-"

"Trust me," he said and took her hands in his. She nodded and smiled.

"And where will I be?" I asked.

"Come on," he said and stood to leave. We went out to the foyer and I started for the door. Sherlock grabbed my sleeve and said, "No, we're going out the back."

I followed him out the back and down a couple streets. From there we doubled back and into an alleyway. Sherlock pulled a lock picking kit out of his coat pocket and picked the lock on someone else's back door.

"Uh, Sherlock, what are we doing?"

"You'll see," he whispered and snuck through the door. I followed him through the door and up to the second floor. The flat was unlet with only some curtains hanging on the living room windows. The sun was starting to set as we crept over to the windows and pushed the curtain aside a few inches.

"Two two one B," I said. He grinned and I added, "Are you going to tell me what's going on?"

"We've been watched all day, John. That's why we went out the back over there and came in the back over here."

I looked across the street again and saw silhouettes moving in the flat. "Sherlock!" I exclaimed.

He glanced out the window and smiled again. "Mrs. Hudson. She's right on time."

"The projector," I said, realisation dawning on me. "You want them to think we're still in there. You think Moran's coming after you."

"No, Moran's already been there. Now he just has to spring his trap." When I only frowned at him, he sighed and went on, "Remember when I asked if Adair's mother had reported any strange smells?"

"Yes."

"Poison gas, John. Sebastian Moran worked as a chemist for the military. He introduced a poison gas into Ronald Adair's room, one that was untraceable, odorless and harmless once dissipated."

"And you think he planted some of this gas in our flat while we were gone?"

It was then that I noticed two men loitering outside Speedy's. One of them had a mobile and started making a call.

"Sherlock."

"Yes, he's calling Moran."

"So, he doesn't even need to be here. All he has to do is push a button."

"He will be though. Unlike Moriarty, Moran likes to get his hands dirty, likes to watch his victims dies. He'll be here."

We sat for a few minutes in silence, waiting for the moment the gas dispersed and Moran showed up.

"It should be any moment now," Sherlock said, a twinge of impatience in his voice.

I started to reply, but he suddenly grabbed me, put his hand over my mouth and dragged me into a shadowy hallway. Finally I heard what he'd heard, footsteps downstairs. We waited, holding our breath, for the steps to come up the stairs, but they never did. I was suddenly very aware of Sherlock's palm on my mouth, the long slender fingers gently cupping my face. I took a deep breath to calm my beating heart and became aware of something else, a hissing sound.

I pulled Sherlock's hand away and whispered his name. At the same time, he sniffed the air.

"He's released the gas here," he growled. "He knows where we are!"

I'd begun to feel lightheaded and nauseous already when Sherlock clamped his hand back over my mouth and nose. He took a deep breath and dragged me back into the living room. He stumbled through the room toward the front door, the gas starting to overcome him as well. He let go of my mouth, coughing and threw open the front door. Moran was waiting for us, a gas mask covering his face.

Sherlock lunged at him, sending them both toppling out of the room. I stumbled after them and saw Moran at the top of the stairs. I felt my legs give way as Moran wielded a knife. I called out to warn Sherlock as I fell to the floor. Before Moran could reach Sherlock, though, he was overtaken from behind and tackled to the floor.

My head started to clear and I pulled myself up to see Lestrade slapping on the handcuffs. He smiled at me, but then his face fell as I walked over to help Sherlock.

"Sherlock!" he yelled. "What the bloody hell are you doing here?"

"Helping you catch your man, Inspector."

"Yeah, but aren't you supposed to be dead?" He chuckled and shook his head as he dragged Moran to his feet. "It's good to see you, Sherlock. God help me, but it's true."

Sherlock made a "hmmphing" sound and then asked Lestrade to keep his name out of it.

"You want me to sit on the fact that you're back?" he said in disbelief as he passed Moran off to some of his officers.

"Just until tomorrow."

"Then what am I doing here?"

"Oh, didn't I mention it? Moran also killed Ronald Adair."

"Adair?"

"Yes. They were gambling partners, but I believe Adair found out about Moran's real job, working for James Moriarty. Moran killed him for it."

"So Moriarty was real?" Lestrade cut in. "My head's starting to hurt."

"Tell me about it," I quipped.

"Morning edition," Sherlock reminded me. Then he turned back to Lestrade. "We'll be in tomorrow afternoon."

Lestrade just nodded, his mouth open and then turned and went down the stairs.

"Come on, John. He'll be sending forensics up soon and we don't want to be here when they show up."

Before we could move though, we realised we were too late. Sherlock grabbed me again and we hurried up the stairs in a flurry of silent giggles. Luckily the flat upstairs was empty too and we ducked in before anyone on the forensics team noticed. Sherlock carefully shut the door and then we found a dark corner to hide in.

I let out a laugh that wasn't so silent and Sherlock put his hand over my mouth again. "Shh, John," he chuckled.

Once again I felt my senses overwhelmed. My heart raced at the feeling of those soft fingers. His warm scent filled my nose and I had to fight back the impulse to kiss his palm. I pushed him off and walked away, breathing hard.

"John?" I heard the confusion in his voice and then felt the heat of him behind me.

"Don't worry about it, Sherlock. You don’t feel…It's alright."

He puts his hands, lightly, on my shoulders, hesitated and then put his lips to my ear. "No, John. Your…confession came as a surprise. It's not that I don't feel the same. It's just that I never dreamed you would."

I whipped around and stared into his eyes, illuminated by moonlight again. They were kind and vulnerable, so different than I'd ever seen them. I could tell it was a plea, that he was willing it to be true. I reached up for the back of his neck and pulled his head down to me. Slowly my mouth pressed against his soft, perfect lips and then suddenly we were kissing hard and hungry. I could feel tears stinging my eyes and they mixed with his as they ran down my cheek.

After a moment, I pulled back and caught my breath. "This would not be a good way to get caught," I pointed out.

"Fire escape?" he suggested.

I nodded and we climbed out the window. We quietly made our way down the steps and then crept through the alleys again until we made it to the back door at Baker Street. Once we were back in the flat, we clumsily made our way to the bedroom, discarding clothes as we went. We finally made it to the bed, nothing left but our pants. We sat down and Sherlock leaned over to kiss me.

"Wait," I said. "I want this to be perfect."

"It will be," he said with a smile. "I'm with you, John."

I blushed and then my eyes began to roam over his beautiful porcelain body. I reached over and caressed his long neck and then brushed my lips against it. It was smooth and warm and I could feel his pulse racing. I kissed and licked at his moles and then leaned back.

Sherlock's head was back and his eyes closed. He stayed that way as my hands gently began to explore every inch of his skin. I looked down and saw him growing long and hard, straining against his underwear. I reached down to help, rubbing my hand and the cotton against his erection.

There was a sharp intake of breath and then he moaned, "Oh god, John." After a moment, he grabbed my hand and lifted his head, a wild look of surprise on his face.

"Don't tell me you really are a virgin," I quipped.

"No, I…I'm just not used to this level of physical contact."

"I know," I said softly, tears stinging my eyes. As a doctor, as a human being for that matter, I knew how important touch was to a person's well being. And I knew how deprived Sherlock had been of it.

"I don't want to mess this up either," he added.

I looked down again with a chuckle and said, "I wouldn't worry about that." He was fully erect now and I gently tugged his pants down, watching as he popped out. I took him in my hand and leaned over, placing my lips over the head.

Sherlock moaned again and I began moving my mouth up and down the shaft. Part of me thought that I was crazy. I'd never done this to another man in my life. But then again, there was no other man like Sherlock Holmes.

"Yes, John!" he cried out. He leaned back on one hand and grabbed my hair with the other, tugging so hard that I felt tears sting my eyes again. I moved faster and faster until his hips moved up to meet me. He was surprisingly vocal and I would have laughed if I hadn't been preoccupied.

"Wait, John," he finally breathed and pulled my head away. He could hardly breathe and only shook his head.

"Do you want to try-" I started to say, but he only shook his head again.

"No, I want you to," he said and started struggling with my underwear.

I smiled and leaned over to get a condom and lubricant out of the nightstand. Not that they'd been used since my last girlfriend, Jeanette, but I kept them around anyway. While I was fumbling around I hit the power button on the clock radio. UB40's version on "I Can't Help Falling in Love" was just coming on.

I reached over to turn it off, but Sherlock said, "No, leave it on."

I turned back to him and tugged his pants the rest of the way off. He looked at me expectantly and I nodded toward the pillows.

"Missionary?" he asked. I nodded and he did too, knowing why. Why wanted to look at one another. He laid back, then took the lube and slathered it on my hand. He lifted his legs and I pushed a finger inside as the chorus echoed from the radio.

He gasped and said, "Slowly." I pulled back and tried again, this time slower and gentler. He opened up for me and I felt my finger slip all the way in. He was warm and inviting and quickly began to move with me. He threw his head back again and called out my name. Watching him drove me crazy and I didn't know how much longer I could wait.

"I need you Sherlock," I murmured. He nodded and I pulled my finger out. I moved closer and leaned over him, caught in the moment as the last refrain of "Shall I stay? Would it be the same?" played and a lump formed in my throat. I could tell it was in his too as his eyes became glassy. Then he rolled the condom on my erection and added the lube. He helped guide and when I found his opening I pushed in as gently as I could. I felt the head slip inside and his muscles close around me.

Sherlock cried out and I moaned in pleasure. After a moment, I felt him relax and I pushed in a little further.

"Oh god," I moaned, echoing his earlier sentiment. I pulled back and after a few more tries, Sherlock's muscles relaxed even more. I pushed in and he engulfed my full length. I started to pull back, but he reared up and grabbed my butt to hold me there, feeling the fullness of me deep inside him.

"John!" he yelled.

I felt like my body would explode. Then he fell back, letting me go and I began thrusting in and out, fast and deep. He lifted up to meet me, each time pushing toward me harder. He slammed his hands down and balled up his fists in the sheet.

He moaned and purred and yelled and this time I did chuckle, until it was cut off by a groan of my own. I fit inside him perfectly and I could feel every inch of him rubbing tightly against me. I heard my skin slapping his and him calling out my name. He was crying it over and over and I knew he was close.

He reached up and grabbed me again, shoving himself up as hard as he could. I thought my balls would be swallowed up. We stayed there, shaking and breathing hard and then, a few seconds later, I felt my orgasm explode out harder than anything I'd ever felt before.

I cried out his name and he did the same. He pushed me back and then thrust up again, over and over, yelling out, unable to stop. Semen started leaking out of his still hard erection so I shifted back to free my hands. Then I took a hold of his erection and pulled on it.

"Yes!" he yelled out again and I kept rubbing it until he finally finished, exhausted and covered in sweat. He fell back to the bed and I collapsed on top of him.

"Ow, John," he said with a laugh.

I was too tired to laugh. I felt like I was going to choke I was breathing so fast. I felt Sherlock's hair on my face, the curls bouncing off each time I let out a breath. He leaned his head against mine and gently stroked my sweat slick back.

"I love you too, John," he whispered.

"These are the sheets you used," I announced.

"Yes, I know."

I took a deep breath and went on, "You know, I used to come in here, right after you died. I'd sit alone in the dark, snuggle up to your pillow." I paused, tears overwhelming me and then forced out, "I'd wear your clothes."

Sherlock put his arms around me and kissed my head. I turned to look at him and he was crying too.

"Sometimes," he said, his voice cracking. "When I'd be deep in thought, trying to reason something out, I'd start talking to you. I'd forget, just for a moment, that you weren't there."

I took a deep breath and shook my head. "We've got to stop this. It's over now."

He nodded in agreement and then saw something I'd knocked off while I was fumbling in the nightstand. He pointed at it and I picked it up off the floor.

"Ah, an advanced copy of the Morning Edition. Mrs. Hudson must have left it," he said.

I read the headline, "The Reichenbach Hero Was Real! Sherlock Holmes' triumphant return from the dead." I chuckled and tossed it back to the floor. "There's only one thing I want to know."

"Yes?" he slowly said.

"How did you survive that fall?"

A grin crept across his face before he reached over and turned out the light.


End file.
